


the Midas touch

by flirtygaybrit



Category: Actor RPF, DC Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Also Multiple Orgasms, Established Relationship, Fluff, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prostate Massage, Prostate Milking, ben's the softest dom, henry hits subspace at mach 5, sloppy blow jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 08:24:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6462928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flirtygaybrit/pseuds/flirtygaybrit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henry doesn't think it can get any worse than this until Ben leans closer, his breath hot on Henry’s skin as he whispers, “I want to try something new.”</p><p>Henry can almost feel his temperature rising beneath his suit, the telltale stirring of warmth deep in his belly that means his body has already made up its mind about this one. “Tell me,” he breathes, and Ben smiles against his ear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the Midas touch

They’re five minutes away from the hotel and Henry is having a difficult time sitting still. He’s full of energy despite a long day of press, thanks to an unsurprising second wind, and it most certainly doesn't help that his thigh is pressed against the side of Ben’s, their hands almost close enough to touch. He won't be able to do so until the hotel door is locked safely behind them, and Henry doesn't think it can get any worse than this until Ben leans closer, his breath hot on Henry’s skin as he whispers, “I want to try something new.”

Henry’s response is purely Pavlovian. By now his nervous system is all but cued to kick into immediate action every time he hears the low, breathy voice in his ear, a learned response aided by his most recent memory of Ben deciding to introduce something new to their sex life. He can almost feel his temperature rising beneath his suit, the telltale stirring of warmth deep in his belly that means his body has already made up its mind about this one.

He turns his head a nearly imperceptible amount, keeping his eyes focused on the back of seat in front of him, and he’s rewarded immediately by the faint brush of Ben’s lips against the shell of his ear.

“Tell me,” he breathes, and Ben smiles against his ear. 

 

In the hotel room Henry drops to his knees with little warning, too eager and impatient to care that they're both still in various stages of undress. He’s only managed to kick off his shoes and shed his jacket, and Ben’s open shirt leaves his stomach exposed for Henry to mouth at while Ben helpfully unbuckles and unzips himself. Henry makes a pleased sound, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses following the bone of Ben’s hips until he’s nuzzling into coarse, dark hair and breathing in the scent of him.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he mumbles, curling his fingers around Ben’s swelling cock. Ben groans low in his throat as Henry gives him a slow, dry stroke, and Henry responds by smearing his mouth along his shaft, unconcerned about proper etiquette or procedure. He can feel Ben’s fingers winding into his hair, and finally he runs out of patience and wraps his lips around the head of Ben’s cock. 

“Jesus, Henry,” Ben hisses above him. Henry answers with a moan, working the flat of his tongue against the underside of Ben’s cock as he sucks him deeper into his mouth. It isn't part of the plan, not the way Ben had so carefully explained it on the way home, but he’s been thinking about sucking Ben off for the better part of the night, and it’s not as if he needs to control himself in the privacy of his own room. He sucks Ben’s cock with sloppy enthusiasm, one hand wrapped around the base and the other splayed over Ben’s hip, keeping him pressed flat against the wall. He hollows his cheeks and sucks, pulling off every so often to stroke him firmly, his hand and Ben’s cock wet from his own saliva, and once he catches his breath Henry laps at his slit and swallows him down again.

Ben is a good sport about it, liberal with his praise and more than happy to let Henry burn off his energy. He slides his fingers through Henry's hair and Henry tilts into it, encouraging the touch with soft noises of approval that only grow louder when Ben gives a slow curl of his hips. 

“Fuck, is that what you want, you want me to fuck your mouth?” Ben asks, and Henry swallows around him and pulls off until only the head of Ben’s cock is resting on his tongue. He glances up, holding his position until Ben’s eyes flutter open and meet his gaze, and quirks a daring brow. 

Ben swallows, eyes dark, hooded, calculating. “You son of a bitch,” he murmurs, and Henry winks up at him, preparing himself for the real event; he sucks lightly, inhales, closes his eyes, and pushes down as far as he can until Ben’s cock is nudging at the back of his throat.

When Ben finally comes Henry is a veritable wreck, drooling down his own chin, his jaw and knees aching, and his own cock so desperately hard he thinks that if he were to press his palm against himself he might come in his pants. He nearly chokes when Ben grips his hair and snaps his hips forward, cock jerking against Henry's tongue, but Henry does what he can to swallow down the hot flood of his release before he pulls off gasping, Ben’s twitching cock nudging against his cheek. 

Henry presses his forehead against Ben’s hip and tries to catch his breath, and after a moment he glances up; Ben’s in no better state, his grip gone slack, and now he pets slowly over Henry's hair. He’s breathless too, still panting, an attractive flush high on his cheeks and sweat shining on his forehead, and he opens his eyes only when Henry scrapes his teeth gently against his hip. 

“You're so fucking beautiful,” Ben says, rubbing his thumb first over Henry's lower lip, then at the corner of his mouth. Henry closes his lips around the tip of Ben's thumb, pleased when Ben swears again and presses the pad of his thumb against Henry’s tongue. “Fucking amazing, Jesus Christ. Get up, get in bed, you look like you’re about to ruin that fancy suit.”

Henry has to clear his throat before he can even think about speaking properly, and he pushes himself slowly to his feet, wiping his mouth on an unfortunately expensive shirtsleeve before he flashes a crooked grin at Ben. “Eager, aren't we?”

Ben grabs him by the tie and pulls him forward for a kiss that’s more bite than anything. The sharp sting goes directly to his cock, and Henry grins against his lips, satisfied. “I cannot wait to watch you beg,” Ben murmurs, and gives Henry an unsubtle nudge back.

Henry can't undress quickly enough. He sheds his clothes as efficiently as possible, shirt and tie and all the rest tossed across the back of a chair before he falls back onto the bed. His own arousal is simmering now, no longer as sharp and urgent but just as obvious, and he splays his legs lazily, knees bent and one arm draped over his stomach while he waits for Ben to finish folding his clothes. He’d questioned it once, had made some clever comment about responsibility and old age, and Ben had proceeded to… well, simply put, Henry doesn't ever plan to mention it to him again. 

“So,” Henry says, feigning nonchalance because he knows how a casual tone drives Ben wild, “like this?”

Ben casts an appreciative glance over him, a fluffy white towel clutched in one hand and lubricant in the other, and crawls onto the bed. “Yeah, that's perfect. You look great, you know. I feel like I should be feeding you grapes. Those big palm leaves for shade, too. Togas.”

Henry holds a hand out, crooks his fingers until Ben leans down and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You're the one turning everything you touch to gold,” he points out fondly, woefully unable to take a compliment without paying one in return. It’s a character flaw. He’s working on it.

Ben chuckles and kisses him again. “You think that, do you? You're gonna love what I'm about to do in your ass, handsome.”

He rears back and Henry grins up at him, more smitten than he knows how to properly articulate when all of his blood is concentrated between his legs. He can't think of anything especially witty to shoot back and settles instead for comfortable silence while Ben uncaps the lube and slicks up his fingers. He isn't nearly as nervous this time around, more than convinced that it can't be much different compared to the times he's done this on his own. Henry can think of at least three or four separate occasions when he’d attempted something similar, fingers in holes and an explosive finish, but none of those occasions had included Ben’s inhuman patience, and he doubts that Ben will be quite as willing to throw in the towel, so to speak, and just let him ride his fingers until he comes.

At last Ben kneels between Henry's legs, pressing soft kisses to the insides of his thighs. “Ready? Nervous? Excited?”

“A little bit of both,” Henry admits. He doesn't think he’ll ever not be a little bit nervous when it comes to Ben. “I'm ready to see what all the fuss is about. Do you want to go over it again?”

Ben had been alarmingly specific about what to expect when he’d explained it in the backseat of the vehicle, and since he seems to lack any sort of self-restraint when Ben’s fingers are involved, Henry had easily agreed. Now Ben smiles at him, the pads of his fingers brushing between Henry’s thighs with just enough pressure to make him shiver, and asks, “Do you want to go over it again?”

“Maybe,” Henry says, a longer and somewhat shyer version of _yes please_. “It’s going to be fingers as usual, and then…?”

“Then you're going to lie back, close your eyes, and relax, and then I'm going to use very light pressure to make you feel things you've never felt before,” Ben confirms. He still hasn't pressed in, the pads of his fingers in place, unmoving. “It’s going to get extremely messy, and you're going to hate me for making you stay still, but when you come… that, I promise you, will more than make up for it.”

Henry pushes his hips down, encouraging, and finally Ben takes pity on him and begins to press inside, just one finger to start. Henry inhales slowly and tips his head back, familiar enough with this to know that they’ll get nowhere if he isn’t completely relaxed. “And I don't touch myself.”

“If you touch yourself I’ll leave the room and let you suffer,” Ben agrees, and Henry laughs, closing his eyes to focus on the width of Ben’s knuckle.

Ben works him open with careful fingers and more patience than Henry ever allows himself. Henry breathes slowly through it, focusing on the rhythm of his heart and the rhythm of Ben’s fingers and earning a lazy kiss to his thigh each time he curls his hips, gasps, or reacts otherwise to the way Ben stretches him. He doesn't have the patience to do it as slowly as Ben does when it comes to himself. He wonders if it’s an age thing.

“Feels good,” he mumbles, comfortable at last with three of Ben's long fingers inside. Ben hums again, lips pressed this time to Henry’s hip, maddeningly close to where his cock rests against his belly. Henry isn't used to being told not to touch himself, and he’s had to compensate by touching everything around him instead, fingers curling in Ben’s hair and in the sheets.

“Ready?”

“Fuck, yeah,” Henry mumbles. He feels as if he's hit a plateau, stuck between mindless pleasure and a mild level of frustration, and he slides his fingers through Ben’s hair again, tugging until Ben growls quietly to focus on something other than the fact that, thus far, his prostate has been completely avoided.

Then, suddenly, Ben is no longer avoiding it; his fingers curl forward just slightly and Henry moans without meaning to, cock twitching against his belly as he clenches around Ben’s fingers. Now he can’t help but think that he wouldn't mind being fucked, and he squeezes his eyes shut, hand fisted in the sheets while he tries to tamp down the thought. This is a different event, Henry reminds himself, and Ben has already promised not to fuck him into next week no matter how eagerly he begs for it.

“Alright?” Ben asks. Henry swallows, nods, and spreads his legs wider. 

Ben’s pressure is light but steady, and it doesn't take long for Henry to start squirming. He groans, tugs at Ben's hair, shifts restlessly with his fingers tangled in the sheets and his head tipped back. He’s fucked himself before with his own fingers, but Ben’s hand is steadier than his own, fingers curling and pressing within him at a pace so agonizingly slow that it makes him grit his teeth, and it isn't just his cock that aches now — he can feel a familiar pressure starting to build in his belly, too, a hot need throbbing with every beat of his heart that sends tendrils of warmth through his limbs.

“Still okay?”

“Think I'm gonna come,” Henry mumbles, one arm now thrown over his face. He spreads his thighs wider, planting his feet against the bed, and he thinks that he really could come like this, completely untouched and desperate for the feel of Ben’s fingers fucking him.

“Mm, not yet, gorgeous,” Ben murmurs against his hip, his fingers dragging white-hot pleasure down Henry’s spine, “you're almost there, you're so close, beautiful, I promise.”

Henry is close now, so close that he's nearly trembling. He flushes as Ben talks to him, skin prickling with heat from the praise and the way Ben’s eyes roam over him. He's never felt a building pressure so intense, not from his fingers or Ben's cock, and he doesn't think he's ever been so aroused in his life; he only dimly notices that precome has pooled over his torso, hot and sticky on his skin, the heat long since spread from his belly into his thighs and the rest of his abdomen. Even his breathing is laboured now, the air burning in his lungs, and Ben has hardly done anything at all to him.

“Ben,” he pleads shakily, “Christ, Ben, fuck…” 

“Right here, handsome,” Ben murmurs, and after a moment Henry shudders, his groan low and guttural and his body hot all over while he clenches tight around Ben’s fingers. The pressure in his body isn’t relieved even though his orgasm seems to take ages to end; he can't remember ever having one last so long, nor can he remember ever feeling a pleasure so bone-deep. It feels like even the bed is shaking with him. 

“Fuck, Henry, I wish you could see this,” Ben breathes, and Henry moans helplessly in response, unable to swallow it because Ben hasn't stopped moving yet, his fingers still stroking steadily inside him, only this time —

This time he presses harder, a nearly undetectable and yet immensely effective shift in pressure, and Henry cries out hoarsely, another shudder rolling through his body with such intensity that he arches off the bed. This time Ben’s free hand wraps around his cock before his orgasm has completely finished, and Henry tugs hard at his hair, fingers curling helplessly against Ben's scalp. 

“Ben,” he whines, a plea for both more and for mercy. He's nearly out of his mind with it now, the deep, unyielding pressure only amplifying the sensations; Ben’s fingers are still moving inside him, no longer light and steady, no longer predictable. The pressure from his fingers is as steady as ever, and if Henry were more lucid he would notice that Ben seems to be drawing a pattern on the inside of him. Before now, he'd genuinely never thought that something could feel so good that it hurts. “ _Ben_.”

He keens loudly when Ben squeezes his cock, and with only a few short, quick flicks of his wrist Henry peaks again. This time he comes, the relief of pressure so immediate and sudden that it shocks him, and this time he feels as if he really _is_ being milked; Ben jerks him off with long, slow strokes, his hand growing slicker with each pass, seemingly unbothered by the trembling and flutter of muscle in Henry’s thighs and abdomen. 

It feels like a lifetime later when Henry finally goes slack, and now Ben eases his fingers out and rubs his palms along Henry's thighs instead, soothing him through the last of the tremors as he shivers through them, and finally murmurs Henry's name so quietly that Henry nearly misses it.

“Henry,” he says gently, voice low and soothing and sweet like honey, “Henry, up here, handsome, look at me, please.”

Henry barely manages to grunt back, all verbal communication skills momentarily shorted out. He does manage to open his eyes, his vision bleary from having squeezed them shut for so long, and he finds Ben watching him, thumbs rubbing slow circles against the insides of his knees, a slow, soft smile spreading over his face.

“Hey, beautiful, you still with me?” Ben asks gently, and Henry can only swallow and nod, throat too dry for a proper response. He wants to close his eyes again, feels like he could sink into the bed and sleep forever, but he forces himself to hang on to the sound of Ben’s voice.

“Don't fall asleep on me yet, okay? Look. I want you to see this.”

It takes an extraordinary amount of effort for Henry to crack open an eye again — and he actually has to ask himself when they'd closed again, because he doesn't quite remember doing it — but he sees almost immediately what Ben’s trying to show him: it's the mess on his stomach that Ben had warned him to expect, and it is a mess, thick trails of white smeared all the way up his chest, his belly wet and glistening with an alarming amount of precome alone. He doesn't really remember most of that happening either, and makes a vaguely impressed noise.

“See, I knew you could do it,” Ben says, reaching for the towel. Henry grins lazily up at Ben and lets his head fall back. 

He probably loses consciousness after that, or at least finds himself so relaxed and carefree that he may as well asleep. He drifts in and out while Ben cleans him up, offering no complaints about the gentle manipulation of his limbs until strong hands try to roll him onto his side, and even then he only manages an unintelligible mumble of an argument that Ben shushes easily.

“I know, handsome, we’re all done,” Ben murmurs, and it's only when he settles into bed, draws the sheets up, and pulls one of Henry's arms around him that Henry realizes how exhausted he really is. It can't have been five minutes since they've finished, he’s sure, and already he’s prepared to sleep; his exhaustion is bone-deep, his limbs heavy weights that he wants to let sink into the mattress, and it seems impossible that Ben should be so awake when he himself can barely open his eyes. 

He does just that, blinking his eyes open just to prove that he can as Ben starts to rub his back. He finds the room dark, assumes that Ben has already turned off the lights, and has to clear his throat before he manages, “Lights out already?”

“Yeah, I think it's time to get some rest,” Ben says, gentle and fond. Henry closes his eyes again, the slow motion of Ben's hand running along his spine soothing, an irresistible pull to the comfort of sleep. “You were amazing tonight, you know. I'll tell you all about it in the morning, how does that sound?”

“We could talk now,” Henry protests quietly, and even he knows how weak it sounds, but Ben simply kisses his forehead and smiles at him in the dark. 

“How about I tell you what I felt, and you tell me in the morning what you got out of it?”

“Mmm,” Henry agrees drowsily. It'll be a miracle if he manages to stay awake for longer than a few minutes, at this rate. 

Ben presses another kiss to his forehead, then a softer one to his mouth. 

“Well, I feel like I won the gold medal in prostate massage,” he starts. Henry's too sleepy to laugh, and he hopes that Ben takes his silence as a firm agreement. “I don't think I've ever seen somebody make a mess like you. Probably helped that you were so hard, too. I should have suggested it a long time ago, can you imagine trying that back when…”

Henry sleeps heavily through the entire night. 

 

In the morning Ben tells it to him all over again. He's actually awake this time, face partially buried in his pillow while he listens, nuzzling into it a little more to hide a bashful smile with each new detail Ben recites from memory.

“I don't remember doing it,” Henry says, not for the first time. Ben nods his head in the direction of the floor, and when Henry twists around to look — because he can't seem to recall downing an entire bottle of water and tossing it on the floor at any point in time, therefore it couldn't possibly have happened — he only has to glance for a second at the empty bottle lying next to his socks before he retreats to the safety of his pillow again. 

“Told you,” Ben says. He's amused by all of it, the bastard, looking especially decadent in the morning light, his legs still tangled with Henry's own under the duvet. “You did it while I was trying to get the come out of your chest hair.”

Henry laughs quietly and watches Ben with one eye. “Funny how you're the only one who remembers any of this, isn't it?”

“Oh, you were out of it, trust me,” Ben says, and Henry absolutely does not doubt that. “Even in the middle of it, you just looked like you were in some other world. Had your eyes rolling back and everything, especially after the second one.”

Henry can't recall the specifics of what Ben’s fingers had been doing at that point, but he now knows exactly what he's going to ask for the next time Ben fingers him, and he knows precisely what he's going to start practicing during the lonely weeks when they're apart. 

“Did you do something different after the second one?”

“Transported you to a higher plane, apparently. And I started spelling my name on your prostate,” Ben says, eyes narrowing playfully when Henry snorts. “What, you don't believe me? I wrote out the whole thing, I'm not lying.”

“That's kind of romantic,” Henry says, only half-joking. He hadn't noticed a pattern to Ben’s movements then, but he also apparently hadn't noticed that he'd been dripping precome all over himself the whole time. Higher plane indeed.

Ben nods. “That’s what I was going for. Now I’ve left my mark and you can't ever sleep with anyone else. I'll haunt you.”

Henry makes a face. “You know, I don't think anybody will ever be able to top that performance anyway. I don't think I'd survive it if they tried.”

“So you're saying you'll never have sex again because it was just that good?” 

“Not with anyone else. Nobody will ever be three orgasms good,” Henry says, before he can help himself. He doesn't think he's stopped smiling even once while he's been awake, and he hides this one in his pillow too, a little shy about his performance after the fact and a lot shy about admitting that he’d rather not sleep with anybody else in the foreseeable future. 

Ben runs a lazy hand along his side and Henry leans into it, humming like a pleased cat as Ben’s hand slides down his thigh, back up to the curve of his ass. “So what you're really telling me is that I have a record to break.”

As quickly as they’d slipped shut, Henry’s eyes snap open again. “No,” he says to both Ben and his cock, neither of whom seem to understand when enough is enough, “no, that's not a challenge, I can't do that right now —”

“That's a challenge for _another_ morning, handsome,” Ben murmurs, and kisses him.

**Author's Note:**

> A couple of days ago I woke up at four in the morning and said "prostate milking? why not"... and here we are. I had a lot of bad jokes about King Midas, Argo, and an Oscar statuette in mind, but unfortunately none of 'em made it in here. just imagine the comedy gold. _imagine it_.
> 
> once again, thanks to the twitter crew and to [brodinsons](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/aeon_entwined) for letting me follow my dreams with these two.


End file.
